o_?

_Fran._ None that you wish to hear: But I'll do what you please, so you
will not oblige me to sigh for you.

_Cleo._ Then prithee sing to me.

_Fran._ What Song, a merry, or a sad?

_Cleo._ Please thy own Humour, for then thou'lt sing best.

_Fran._ Well, Madam, I'll obey you, and please my self.

SINGS.

_Amyntas_ led me to a Grove,
Where all the Trees did shade us;
The Sun it self, tho it had strove,
Yet could not have betrayed us.
The place secure from human Eyes,
No other fear allows,
But when the Winds that gently rise
Do kiss the yielding Boughs.

Down there we sat upon the Moss,
And did begin to play
A thousand wanton Tricks, to pass
The Heat of all the Day.
A many Kisses he did give,
And I return'd the same:
Which made me willing to receive
That which I dare not name.

His charming Eyes no aid requir'd,
To tell their amorous Tale;
On her that was already fir'd,
'Twas easy to prevail.
He did but kiss, and clasp me round,
Whilst they his thoughts exprest,
And laid me gently on the Ground;
Oh! --who can guess the rest?

_After the Song, enter _Silvio_ all undrest, gazing wildly on
_Cleonte_; his Arm ty'd up._

_Cleo._ My Brother _Silvio_, at this late hour, and in my Lodgings too!
How do you, Sir? are you not well?

_Silv._ Oh, why did Nature give me being?
Or why create me Brother to _Cleonte_? [Aside.
Or give her Charms, and me the sense to adore 'em?

_Cleo._ Dear Brother-- [Goes to him.

_Silv._ Ah, _Cleonte_-- [Takes her by the Hand and gazes.

_Cleo._ What would you, Sir?

_Silv._ I am not-- well--

_Cleo._ Sleep, Sir, will give you ease.

_Silv._ I cannot sleep, my Wounds do rage and burn so, as they put me
past all power of rest.

_Cleo._ We'll call your Surgeon, Sir.

_Silv._ He can contribute nothing to my Cure,
But I must owe it all to thee, _Cleonte_.

_Cleo._ Instruct me in the way, give me your Arm,
And I will bathe it in a thousand Tears,
[Goes to untie his Arm.
And breathe so many Sighs into your Wound--

_Silv._ Let that slight hurt alone, and search this-- here.
[To his Heart.

_Cleo._ How! are you wounded there,
And would not let us know it all this while?

_Silv._ I durst not tell you, but design'd to suffer,
Rather than trouble you with my Complaints:
But now my Pain is greater than my Courage.

_Fran._ Oh, he will tell her, that he love